Homecoming
by Raablyn
Summary: En route to the drow outpost of House Myneld, strange things occur . . . what is that green glow passed from hand to black hand? And what is this with a shadowchild?
1. Prologue

_As the curtains draw back, and reddish smoke streams upwards from the sweetly burning braziers with their sheets of waving flames that cause the elegantly eerie carvings of spiders dangling from svelte and delicate hands upon the walls, already flickering with faerie fire, to gleam a weirdly lurid scarlet beneath the dance of bluish-purple, out steps a figure bearing words that flow up and down over the knots and slopes of a dark and twisted imagination . . . a figure that steps from beyond the flames, book in hand, to reveal a story writ in blood. _

_You are all welcome at the Ceremony of Talespinning. _

_Enter now . . . _

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**Homecoming.**

The darkness of these tunnels was endless, eternal, and ancient; the blackness of the universe before the sun lit it with glaring, garish white. The darkness of the womb of all life, the pregnant silence of a void . . . the darkness of a heart untouched by love, by kindness, by other weak and disgraceful emotions. The sunlight was for the weak; the sunlight stole strength from your knees and made your eyes fill with shameful tears. The sunlight turned you into a child again, stripped you of your composure, shocked you into submission . . . and then tried to make up for the humiliation of daybreak by searing your face with rays of pain, blasting the world away in an blinding glare that left you blind, weak . . . and helpless.

Perhaps this was why Nathurra Despate so loved the darkness.

Crouched at the edge of the Bridge, watching as it swooped down across the gorge that separated this length of tunnel from its sister and vanished into the single, vast shadow hunched, predator-like and hungry, along the opposite cave wall, the drow elf felt a thrilling pulse rise in her throat as images swept her mind. Images of falling into the darkness . . . these frightened her -- just a little -- and the fact that her imagination frightened her bore a deep and abiding anger in her stomach, an anger that fought the fear and triumphed. Instead, the moment of weakness passing by with a mere clicking of her nail upon the emerald buckle of her mage's belt, her mind filled with fantasies of shoving others -- goblins, perhaps, or the occasional mewling human wandering far in over his foolish head -- into the old and evil dark. Fantasies of seeing the overwhelming fear creeping over their eyes, blinding them as surely as the cursed and wicked sun; fantasies of tasting their terror, of nails and knives and jagged stone scraping on pale and ugly skin, tearing it, drawing blood; fantasies of shoving them over the edge, of feeling the give of rock beneath their legs, of hearing them scream . . . and scream . . . and scream as they plummeted into the throat of the black that escaped the limits of even her heat-seeing eyes.

The dark elf licked her lips and sternly reprimanded herself for so dropping her guard. She turned quickly around, masking the unsure movements with a guise of nonchalance, and studied her companions, searching for a sign that they had noticed her failing and were readying to strike. Well, if they did, she was ready for them; the spells she had painstakingly prepared for the day burned in her mind and danced on the tip of her tongue, screaming for release. Let them try to touch her -- let them learn the folly of their ways -- let them die a slow and painful death --

No one was coming for her. Nathurra smiled inwardly, relief coursing reluctantly through her belly. It would be unwise to use her arcane magic so readily; she, as one of the seconds from the dark elf scouting mission sent from Aunithrazael, the City of Emerald Waters, may have need of it still, although they were almost home.

Home. The word had a warm taste to it, a safe taste, and Nathurra banished it immediately. It would not do to attach emotion to a place or thing. Ignoring the residue of the warmth, the dark elf wizard studied her charges, running a second check on their faces. Just to make sure no one had seen her inexcusable lapse.

All seven of them were present; and none were looking her way. The Zauneld commoners, female cousins Rilayne and Rauviira, excellent fighters both, were stationed at the beginning of the Bridge (Rilayne, Nathurra noticed with some amusement, was starkly staring at the ceiling, as if to deny the open space just a step to the right, and Rauviira was casually sharpening her knife, her stark white hair glimmering with a purplish-blue sheen in the light of the faerie fire.); her own current mate (for the last hundred years or so), and the father of her two children, Lesven Despate, stood rear guard at the opening of the cave, some fifty feet or so back, with Veszafein of House Alezynge and the young, more-than-a-little-insane Luaniss of House Torrae; and Vasonia Huntyl, accompanied by Istral Rilynvirr, and the only other nobles aside from Nathurra herself, was walking the perimeter of the half-circular stretch of stone that flew smoothly out from the cave mouth and ended abruptly at the drop. Her part of the scouting mission had finished its mapping of the tunnels for the day, and now waited for the other two groups to meet up with them. Felyne Barriett, the leader of the entire mission, had chosen to travel with Sornas Hlandar's group this time; and that decision had left Nathurra in sole charge of her group. Which, to Nathurra's thinking, was good; when Felyne was present, Nathurra had to defer to the scarred, frightening female.

She herself was neither scarred nor deformed; no slash of ill-healed wound creased her silky, deep-sea-black skin. Nathurra stood an inch or two above five feet, with her waist-length froth of slightly silverish-white hair neatly braided and wound up practically about her small skull. Her features were delicate, slightly more angular than the dark elven norm, a bit fragile in appearance, and all fitted nicely into a beautiful heart-shaped face. Her lips were full and dark, and her large, dark eyes gleamed with intelligence. Her movements were solid and graceful, the movements of a warrior, which seemed in accordance with the slender longsword at her waist but were denied by her long, draping black robes that slid teasingly about her slender waist. Silver-white thread upon her cuffs sparkled in the faerie fire, entwining webs and runes sewn upon the fabric. Her belt was heavy with items strange and horrid and beautiful, but pouchless; all her larger items were cunningly tucked into the pockets of her robes, and few knew what she held before she produced it. The Despate girl was a beauty, a natural charmer, an enchanter who nonetheless felt drawn to the dark allure of necromancy and found no patience with evocation, and, as the second daughter of her house, and was a significant threat and a stern commander.

Few expressed astonishment when learning of her career in arcane power; Nathurra, however, could easily and with amusement read the surprise within their eyes. She was a wizard, a female wizard and second daughter of a powerful and noble house of Aunithrazael (although the city was young by drow terms, having been begun little more than eight hundred years ago by First Matron Mother and Queen Aunithra of House Noquervs), and, although the City of Emerald Waters was a bit less loose in its religious mania, with worshippers of Ghaunadaur, Selvetarm the Champion of Lolth, Vhaeraun, and even Kiaransalee (but not Eilistraee; that dancing wench was ever to be scorned by those with half a half of mind) operating legally in the city (although they were doomed to secret oppression by the Spider-kissers), a noble female wizard was still a rare sight to be seen.

Nathurra enjoyed this fact; it lent her name a certain uniqueness and hinted at her House's variety for powers and confidence (her mother had, after all, sacrificed a potential high priestess to the world of arcane power). It also made her unpredictable; few dark elves knew whether or no to treat her as a priestess or assume her whims in accordance to one.

"Mistress!"

Rilayne shrieked suddenly, startling Nathurra from her contemplations and jerking the three in the rear to attention. Nathurra snapped her head to the Bridge, and was rewarded with the sight of a young drow elf laying smashed against the side of the Bridge, head bent back, with two tentacles rapidly winding about her middle and a third coiling quickly about her head.

Shock blanked her mind, and beneath that shock the seed of pleasure bloomed.

"To arms!" Nathurra cried in surprise and excitement, and hear the zeal in her voice echoed by her warriors. Rauviira, acting out of Lolth knew what, sprang forward and plunged her freshly polished and sharpened dagger into the third tentacle. There was a sick, tearing sound, and a fine spray of black liquid flew in Rauviira's face. She whooped, regardless of the sticky liquid clinging wetly to her hair, and Istral snickered as he drew up beside Rilayne.

_Click_ went the crossbow, and _thunk_ went a quarrel into another tentacle; it quivered with the sharp movement of the appendage, and Nathurra didn't have to turn to see that Veszafein had shot the weapon. Rilayne twisted in the suddenly looser grasp, and nearly succeeded in wiggling away; a fourth tentacle caught her by her long, flowing hair, and stopped her short. It, however, afforded a newly arriving Lesven ample room to swing his longswords, and swing he did; Rilayne fell back, released, with the severed piece of meat dropping with a wet, soft sound beside her.

Nathurra saw her opportunity, and reacted with one of her simplest spells; a gust of wind flew out from her outstretched hand, struck the rising blob of creature slowly pulling itself over the edge as it recoil slightly in distress (Veszafein gasped in disgust, and Vasonia, Nathurra's second, struck him a healthy blow with her whip) and smile again as it made a bubbling sound and fell back, dropping off into the darkness. Its two friends, however, kept coming; there was a sizzle of alien flesh as Luaniss's lightning bolt struck the second, and Rilayne aimed a powerful kick at the third.

"Hit the damn thing!" Vasonia snapped when Rilayne missed, and then took her own advice with another sharp _snap!_ of the whip as it cracked across Thing Two's large, vacantly dark eyes. The thing made a mewling sound, and Veszafein promptly stuck another quarrel into it. Nathurra loosed another spell, and Thing Three staggered, suddenly weak; Luaniss, who had become entangled in its tentacles, slipped free with an exultant cry, and Lesven sliced the thing nearly in two where Luaniss had been but a moment ago. Black blood sprayed, and Nathurra's nose wrinkled; the smell was of decaying moss.

"Vith'os!" reached Nathurra's ears, and she suspected Lesven, who was drenched with the stuff, as the culprit. Vasonia scowled at the male between snaps; Istral jumped behind her target, flanking it between him and Rauviira, and they simulatiously dug swords into the thing's flesh. Luaniss cackled with laughter, but extended her bony hand, caught hold of a tentacle, and managed to get off acleric spell at the same time;the moderately serious woundsshe inflicted stung the creature at the same time that Nathurra's spell activated. Dazed, the monster tottered back, where Istral speared it expertly.

Three things dead in a matter of minutes.

Too many minutes. Had there been more than three of the things,the wizardknew, they would have overrun her drow force.

Nathurra scowled at her drenched minions. "Do you call that battle?" she asked, waving one slim hand disparagingly at the seven drow. "That was a clumsy effort worthy of a Lolth-damned bastard human! That was _shameful_!"

Istral lowered his eyes; Rilayne flicked some of the wet goo from her chainmail and shifted slightly from foot to foot. The rest bowed their heads in submission to Mistress Nathurra's scoldings.

"How dare you call yourselves warriors?" she snapped at them. "Rilayne, warriorof House Zauneld, why were you not on the lookout for those creatures and _why_ did you fail to warn this company of their presence?"

Rilayne bowed her head meekly, but Nathurra caught the spark of humiliated anger in her red eyes. "Forgive my failures, _Jabbress_." she swallowed firmly -- more, Nathurra knew, to clear the knob of fury in her throat than to firm up her voice -- "I have no excuse."

"Mother of Lusts, I don't want your excuse." Nathurra snarled at her. "I want your explanation, girl." Excuses, they all knew, were for races less exalted than the drow. Nathurra dropped a stern glare over the commoner, and the others followed suit.

Head still bowed, Rilayne nodded demurely. "_Xas,_ _Jabbress_."

Nathurra glanced to Vasonia, ignoring a silently simmering Rilayne. "Give her nine strokes, three for each creature slain." she ordered smartly. "And perhaps that will teach her to keep her head as a guard to an unstable area that has not yet been secured." she added, her voice abruptly softening and becoming almost motherly and gentle.

Rilayne cringed with proper, fake chagrin. Nathurra recognized the acting -- superb acting, the girl was a natural, although Nathurra had no intention of telling her so -- and took a step nearer. She reached out and softly brushed Rilayne's forehead with the very tips of her fingers, avoiding the gore-splattered patches of skin. Rilayne did not shiver. Leaning in closely, Nathurra all but whispered, "Your humiliation is your own to take. You deserve it, for it was born of your own misjudgment."

Rilayne's eyes widened with anger, and went dark with unease. Nathurra mouthed a spell, and it went off with a silence that she had perfected two hundred years ago; the thoughts from the girl's mind -- just her surface ones -- poured into Nathurra's mind for her inspection.

_-- Lolth damn it it wasn't my fault ugly witch I didn't want to look down so I skimmed the ceiling Rauviira was supposed to be watching the bridge's bottom damn stupid chit she was polishing the _vithin_ dagger how dare you blame me I warned you old damn daughter of a drider not my fault how dare you scold me how dare you humiliate me I'll make you pay cut the skin from your face tear out your eyes drink your blood your blood your blood and watch it pool about the floor -- _

Nathurra nodded knowingly, and felt the girl go still and cold beneath her fingers. Casually, with the lightest of touches, she combed her fingers through the silken white tresses, navigating around the soaked patches of limp, gooey strands, and suddenly grabbed hold of a large section of the girl's hair, just above her throat, and straddled the back of her neck with her thumb and ring finger. Rilayne gasped as Nathurra squeezed and tilted the girl's head back, so that her eyes, now definitely shimmering with fear, were directly in front of her. Their noses brushed tips.

"Or else." Nathurra whispered gently, almost lovingly, her warm breath caressing Rilayne's lips. She suddenly wrenched the girl away from her, and Rilayne, released, stumbled back and recovered her balance with a catlike, albeit nervous, grace.

Nathurra turned away, dispassionate and cold. "Give her a tenth lash to think on, Huntyl." she ordered calmly. "Let me see her bleed."

Rilayne winced, Vasonia raised her head, and the remaining five let loose soft, sighing breaths that no human or dwarf would have heard. "As you command, Mistress." she replied dutifully, and, out of the corner of her eyes, Nathurra saw Veszafein, Istral, Rauviira and Luaniss share a slightly smiling glance. The punishment is over, their eyes said brightly, and we're not bleeding-- let's go and see the offender's blood.

Nathurra kept walking as chain mail clinked behind her, kept walking as clothing slipped up over skin and footsteps wandered over to the show, kept walking as the whip went crackand the onlookers sighed appreciatively. Blood, Nathurra knew, would flow. She kept walking to the opening of the cave, a small jagged oval tall enough for a drow elf to pass comfortably threw without ducking, and counted lashes. At the fourth one, she whirled on her minions, screaming at them with a whip of her own, through this one considerably more vocal and less physically painful.

"What in the Six Hundred and Sixty-Six Layers do you think you're _doing? GET TO YOUR POSITIONS_!"

She watched them jump, watched them chant "Yes, Mistress," and "Forgiveness, Mistress," watched them scurry back to their positions (all save the Zauneld girl and Vasonia; the rogue-warrior kept lashing with measured, powerful strokes, and the fighter cried out once or twice in pain, drawing trilling laughter from her comrades.) like so many spiderlings. It was only after a moment that Nathurra noticed the presence behind her.

She spun, and came up face-to-face with Lesven's gleaming red eyes. They glowed in her heat-seeing vision, and his face was yellow with heat. His perfectly combed and styled hair, swept dashingly back from his face, hung gray and heatless. That hair, when viewed by the light of faerie fire, was an unusual white-blond color, the usual stark white tinted yellow. He was smaller than she by an inch or so, but just as slender and beautiful, and decked in chainmail, a piwafwi, and dark, unassuming fabric beneath the armor. A small scar, received before he and she had met more than a hundred years before, began just in front of his left ear and curved into his hair. Despite herself, Nathurra smiled slightly, for Lesven's face brought thousands of warm and pleasurable memories floating to her mind.

"Nice discipline," he snickered, boldly and easily meeting her eyes with a small smile on his lips. "I could hear the girl shaking in her boots."

Nathurra shrugged. "She had it coming to her. I merely delivered it."

"Ah." Lesven's smile widened to a knowing smirk.

"Watch how you talk to the Second Daughter of House Despate, soldier." She warned him mock-sternly, not truly meaning it; Lesven knew his place as her spouse and companion, and kept it well, despite his rakish and sometimes disrespectful actions.

"Of course, Mistress Nathurra." the male bowed formally before her. "I obey your exalted word, lest you lease the wrath of the arcane energies upon my pitiful and puny form."

"Watch your mouth." She ordered.

"Rather hard to do, don't you think?" He smiled up at her.

Nathurra laughed at him, laughed at how silly he looked, still bowed before her, his bangs of his silky hair falling across his sculpted cheeks. "You should be at your post."

"Is that a command, my lady?" Lesven straightened with somber dignity and spread his hands wide. "Am I not your warrior, doomed -- ah, privileged -- to protect my Mistress Mage?"

Nathurra shrugged easily. "Is the area secure?"

Lesven studied her for a moment, grinned again, and then turned to face the execution of discipline. "_Gu'e_, Mistress Huntyl!"

Vasonia turned and scowled at him, looking up from her seventh stroke, her hair still miraculously in place. "What in the name of the Hells do you want?"

Lesven dropped Nathurra a sly wink. "Is the area secure, Mistress?"

"Lady of Chaos, what the hell do you think?" she yelled back. "Of course it is!"

Lesven turned solemnly back to Nathurra. "My mistress, I am overjoyed to inform you that the sea is indeed secure."

Nathurra flicked her eyes upwards in a gesture of exasperation. "Follow me, then, soldier."

"It is my pleasure, Exalted Mistress."

Nathurra slapped Lesven across the face. She did so sharply, painfully, but quietly; no one else noticed. They, Nathurra knew, were too engrossed in watching Rilayne's beating out of the corner of their eyes.

Lesven blinked at her, and then ruefully rubbed his cheek. "I beg your forgiveness, Mistress, for I have sinned." he murmured, and then tucked a wayward wisp of hair behind his ear as he dipped another bow. "Would you mind informing me of my transgression?"

Nathurra smiled coyly at her mate. "'Exalted Mistress' is the address of a High Priestess."

Lesven shrugged. "Forgive me my ignorance, Mistress Nathurra, but I had thought that your rank was equal to --"

"No rank is equal to the rank of High Priestess!" Nathurra whispered to him sternly. _No matter_, she thought, _but oh how much I wish it were_. Lesven bowed his head in submission with another shrug.

"As you say, Mistress."

"A High Priestess --" Nathurra continued, speaking softly but firmly, " -- carries the Word of Lolth. No drow holds a rank equal to that of a High Priestess."

"What about a High Priest?" That smile was back, snaking about his face. "I am told that there is such a thing among the followers of Vhaeraun."

Nathurra raised her hand again, appalled at such blasphemy, but Lesven bowed again and slipped back away from her, knowing that he had overstepped his bounds. "Your forgiveness, my lady." he offered simply and with proper chagrin, "I spoke out of turn and with disrespect. Perhaps I can accompany you at some later date."

"You know you did, _dos fa'la zatoast_." Nathurra replied evenly, and Lesven bowed again in apology as he took his leave, backing up and turning quickly to quick-march his way back to his post with Veszafein. Nathurra opened her mouth to remind the male that she had intended to show him something, butshrugged and glanced over to Vasonia and Rilayne just in time to see Vasonia wipe her whip on Rilayne's shirt ("Oh," Nathurra heard her say when Rilayne made a throaty noise of protest, "it'll be bloody enough in a minute, cease this whining."), coil it, and tuck it back into her belt. She waited patiently as Rilayne pulled her shirt on (Vasonia was right; the blood crisscrossing Rilayne's back soaked quickly into her shirt, leaving streaks of hot liquid that shone brightly to heat-sensing eyes) and pulled her chainmail over it. Nathurra was still watching as Vasonia marched up to her Mistress, a sullen Rilayne in tow.

"The punishment has been executed." Vasonia said simply, watching as Nathurra's eyes scanned Rilayne's slumped posture.

"I am capable of seeing that." Nathurra replied, clapping her hands together smartly. Istral, who was watching the conversation, started in surprise at the sudden sound, although neither Rilayne nor Vasonia moved."Stand up, girl. You'll kill your posture."

She flinched slightly at the sudden sound, and Nathurra felt a wave of deep and burning satisfaction that stemmed from the girl's open wound within her pride; she had been beaten down, had been struck in the most vulnerable of places -- her ego -- and had listen to her fellows as they watched her bleed. All that brought Nathurra agreat and savage pleasure.

"As you command, Mistress." Rilayne replied stiffly, straightening quickly and with obvious pain. Nathurra enjoyed that, the physical hurt, as well; the girl should have been on a better lookout, shameful fear of heights or not. Vasonia smiled slightly and folded her hands neatly in front of her stomach.

"Back to your posts, both of you." Nathurra replied. They offered obeisance and skulked away,but Nathurra caught Vasonia's arm as she turned to go.

"Yes, Mistress?" Vasonia turned politely back, face demure and obedient.

Nathurra tightened her grip slightly. "Inform Luaniss, cleric of House Torrae, that I wish her presence."

Vasonia dipped another bow. "Of course, my lady. Consider it done."

Nathurra nodded and released the female, and watched as the two moved away. Lesven, she noticed, had begun a game of coins with Veszafein while that boy, Istral, looked on; the objective was, she knew, to stack the most coins neatly into a small, carefully carved metal cup balanced precariously on a small, rounded rod of dried giant mushroom stalk. It had always seemed rather inane to the wizard, but she watched anyway. Lesven was winning, and she held no illusions about his reaction to her reprimand; he would come to her again, smiling and shrugging and cocky, and probably before the other two groups arrived. She liked Lesven. He could be vicious, and randomly so, once stripping the skin from a bugbear that had looked him full in the face in the middle of a busy street and feeding the cooked strips to the whining goblin their daughter Jysaere kept as a thrall while the baby girl, who had been a little thing twenty or so years ago -- was still a little thing, come to think of it, only thirty years old and nearing the end of her wizardly training (she was to be a mage, a decision Nathurra had fought tooth and nail over with her mother partly for reasons vague and unknown to her but mostly out of pure hatred for the idea of her daughter, who had been a tiny, crumpled thing brought forth in sweat and blood, lording over her as a cleric) -- but he approached the world with a cold, scientific, take-it-as-it-comes-and-twist-it-to-your-advantage attitude that she, and many others,admired.

Her reflections were interrupted by the silent approach of Luaniss, who offered obeisance when she noticed that Nathurra saw her.

"What is your desire, Mistress?"

Nathurra smiled sweetly at the female, who was younger than her and boasted a pair of golden amber eyes that always seemed to dart about in an annoyingly paranoid, nervous way. The Lolthite cleric had not yet attained the status of High Priestess, and, in the City where Lolth's priestesses did not hold absolute sway, Nathurra, as a noble and a powerful wizard, outranked the yellow-eyed drow. Luaniss must have been aware of this, but her gaze was slightly vacant, with the stamp of blankness imprinted in those eyes. Eyes, Lesven once whisperedin her ear, "that give me the_ creeps_."

"I wish you to aid me," she began, waving Luaniss nearer and holding up a slim hand, bidding silence. "I wish to contact Mistress Barriett and Adultree Killyl through a magical sending, to discover their whereabouts and inform them of ours, but I have only one such spell prepared this day. You, I believe, have the training and power necessary tocast the divine version of the spell I intend to cast?"

Luaniss nodded, even smiled a little. Her voice, Nathurra noticed, lisped slightly. "Yes, my lady."

"Good." Nathurra dipped a small hand into a deep pocket of her robe, and withdrew two short pieces of fine copper wire. Cupping the first piece against her palm, she held the second out with two dark fingers."Your subject is Adultree Killyl; mine is Mistress Felyne Barriett."

"Of course, Mistress Nathurra." Luaniss waved the material component away. "I have, however, no need of that." Noticing Nathurra's frown, the cleric hastily continued, "It is an arcane material component, Mistress. My casting is divine. I need no such thing. With all due respect, Mistress." she gestured to the wire, and Nathurra tucked it back into her pocket.

"All right." the wizard transferred the copper to her left hand. "Shall we begin?"

Luaniss bowed her head in submission. "At your command, Mistress Despate."

The two dark elves moved a ways away from the others, taking a seat just inside the opening to the cave. Nathurra wondered at the girl's trust in the situation, but decided that Luaniss apparently felt secure in the knowledge that the warriors had a clear view of the two spellcasters. Nathurra herself felt no unease at the mouth of the tunnel; the band, on orders from the Council, had set offto map and explore the tunnels south of the City, and so far they, splitting into three groups -- Sornas's, her own, and Adultree's, with Felyne travelling with the group she wished to travel with --were almost done with the job, having come upon countless goblins, kobolds, and not much else aside from the expected array of monstrous creatures. Today's tunnels had been clear; they were as safe as dark elves in the company of their fellow race could be.

Luaniss closed her eyes and mouthed the name of the Goddess while Nathurra closed her own and focused on the power within her mind. Chanting slowly, she drew it slowly forth, twisting it intoa vaguely distinct shape of power, creating a crystalline sculpture of arcane might; and then she released it, focusing on a mental portrait of Felyne Barriett's scarred yet dignified face, and send it hurdling along the Web to sink into the fellow drow's conciousness.

_Am at Cave a mile from intersection. Will meet you there. Tunnels clear; small scuffle with unidentified tentacled things in cave. Am at Bridge. Contact_.

Having reached, more or less, the twenty-five word allowance of the spell, Nathurra quieted and waited patiently as Luaniss related similar tidings. All the spellcasters -- divine as well as arcane -- in the mission had been drilled on the script they either may have to relate or, in the case of Felyne Barriett and Nathurra Despate and the other two leaders, were supposed to relate. The underling spellcasters were taught the script for a twofold reason; one, so that they might assist the leader in her or his castings if there was such a need, and two, to inform the other two sections of the mission in case the leader "forgot."

_Contact made_, Felyne's mental voice poured over her own musings like still-warm bodily fluids might flow over smooth and polished floors, _am at intersection two miles back. Lolth-damned goblins; will arrive in one to four hours._

Quick and abrupt, Felyne stopped seven words short of her twenty-five limit; Nathurra folded her hands (while keeping her thumb discretely over a pocket of her robes that held a slim, long wand) and stayed still, seeing if Felyne meant to say any more. Apparently not -- and Nathurra didn't think it was likely that a last-minute thought might bloom in Felyne's mind. The small female was composed and direct, and not prone to tiresome chatting.

_How might we serve the Goddess that way?_ popped up in her mind, and Nathurra snapped the thought off; it was a question that she had been asked, over and over again, during the clerical part of her wizardly studies by (in her humble opinion) overexcited, over-zealous females whenever they caught their young charges doing something they disliked, like holding unwanted conversation. _How might we serve the Goddess that way?_ -- and _crack!_ the whips, _crack!-snap! _and the fine spray of crimson between the cut lips of raw and torn flesh.

_We serve the Goddess in blood_, that was the answer that the class -- all the females applying for the title of Wizard in the School of Arcane Magic, which amounted to Nathurra and three other females, none of whom worth naming, were taught to reply. Nathurra snapped off this thought as well; there was a cleric of Lolth sitting right across from her! And while Nathurra honestly did not fear Luaniss, a young girl fresh from the clerical school, she did not want to explain her death to Felyne. And, more importantly, she didn't want to waste any more of her spells if there was not a need to do so. The scouts -- three of them, including Lesven -- had only traveled as far as the caves during thetwenty-four-hour rest period thirteen and a half hours ago; there might very well be Things waiting in the impenetrable darkness across the gorge.

This caused Nathurra's mind to turn back to Felyne's message -- _Lolth-damn goblins_. Kelrysn Maelyl, a rather roguish if somewhat plain noble of the Twentieth House, had been the one to explore that little maze of tunnels, which, he had reported, had been infested with the ugly, stupid things. Nathurra shook the image of the Maelyl boy creeping across the ceiling, peering down at the blubbering fools below -- probably, she thought, licking his thin lips as he did so and imagining how smoked goblin flesh would taste. Kelrysn was slightly disconceting like that.

Personally, Nathurra's nose detested the smell of goblin blood -- it stank of punishment and vented anger, and while those two were not unpleasent, it also stank of the filthy veins that it surged through. Better, nose and mind agreed, to keep it cleaned from her blades and away from her clothes. _Lolth-damn goblins_; Felyne and today's lucky group must have stumbled upon an extra pocket of the cowardly things. Good for them. Marvelous, in fact. It kept Felyne's prying eyes from Nathurra's decisions.

Well aware that she was surrendering her grip on her surrounding to the lure of the shapeless world of musings, Nathurra dug her nails into the flesh of her hands, and savored the pain. It reminded her of the heartbeat she had fought to maintain throughout her life, reminded her of the consequences of losing that heartbeat. Blood beaded on the tip of one nail; she absently raised it to her lips and licked it off.

A short minute passed, in which Luaniss's eyes remained closed. Nathurra studied her body, checking to see if the muscles were tensed in expectation of lunging; they were calm, relaxed, the fingers laying meekly in her laps and not reaching for a blade. The laxness of the muscles was mildly startling; Nathurra would have expected something different from a dark elf in the company of her own and otherwise alone out in the wilds. Perhaps, she thought, the lack of tensing was a preparation for movement; untensed muscles shot forward more easily than tensed ones, and with less warning. The hand slipped down from her mouth and lay upon her lap, poised so that she could have the knife now currently nestled up her sleeve in her hand with one flick and said knife implanted within the chest of the cleric with another flick.

Just in case.

Luaniss shifted then, and opened her eyes. Nathurra did not tense, but kept her hands very still; her face was smooth and lovely and casual. It remained so as Luaniss nodded her head.

"They will be here in about one hour." she said simply.

"Oh?" Nathurra wiggled her foot awake and fixed her eyes upon Luaniss's properly lowered ones. "Are you sure? Absolutely positive --" her eyes tightened their gaze and bored uncomfortably in,"-- that you haven't forgotten something?"

Luaniss didn't flinch, but kept her body relaxed, her expression distant but almost friendly -- not by the standards of a human or a gnome, but by the well-bred and considerably higher standards of a drow elf, that expression that some lessers would term "damn weird" was most amiable. "Of course not, mistress."

"Good." Demure voice, demure words, demure facial expression, demure posture; you may live, my darling, to see the second century of your life with those large, demure eyes, Nathurra thought. She waved her hand casually towards the Bridge. "You may leave me now."

"As you wish, Mistress." Luaniss rose gracefully, and for a second Nathurra felt a cold and sharp certainty in the pit of her belly: Luaniss was going to lunge at her with a dagger, going to lunge and stab and strike with her free hand. Immeadiately on the frozen heels of that was a practiced reassurance; I could, Nathurra knew, blast her mind and enfeeble her body before the dagger would descend, and, of course, be deflected by the robes. I could. I could!

But Luaniss didn't lunge, didn't even make a move in that direction, and Nathurra smiled inwardly at her own paranoia as the young female strode away, pale hair swaying with the movements of her shoulders. She was still smiling when she heard the breathing behind her, and felt a warm hand upon her shoulder. The touch had a practiced air of caution, and the smile widened; Lesven was such a good actor.

"Mistress Mage?" that familiar voice, cool and tinged with a unfaltering hue of sarcasm and rakish charm and proper, distant respect. "It appears that you are in want of company."

"I would not call you decent company." she replied, turning to face him. His hand was resting on her shoulder; the light warmth of it was oddly comforting, like the handle of her sword or butt of her amber wand against her palm. His face, she saw, was serious and calm.

"Oh, I would disagree."And now he was smiling -- that strange half-smile that made her almost want to shake him. "If I may have my say, Mistress." A bow of his head, smooth and low.

She blew a quick breath out through her nose and reached up to lay her hand over his. "I have no doubtof your considerable ability to do so, Lesven."

"You should not." he slipped her a sly wink. "Not after, what -- ninety years? A hundred?"

"Hundred and eleven." she corrected absently. "Not counting Luzlael."

He laughed, soft and gentle laughter that contrasted sharply with the eerie, bright light in his eyes. They were, she noticed, a pale, pale green in the light of the faerie fire. As she allowed her heatvision to fall away from her sight, the wizard let the distinct shapes about her become vague and shadowed and dark ; the cave's walls, and just about everything else,were lit with a bluish hue. Lesven himself became half-shade and soft blue eyes; were it not for his closeness, she might have mistaken him for a shadow. He was, she realized, also not using the infravision.

"No." he agreed in a fervent tone that made her want to draw him closer, "I had thought, my dear lady, that we had both sworn an oath never to mention Luzlael to anyone."

"I broke it." she whispered back; his voice had been steadily dropping throughout his sentence, and her lack of vocalization matched his. "Oops."

"You naughty girl." he squeezed her shoulder with his delicate fingers. "Eh?"

"Watch your tongue, soldier." she hissed at him, her tone as fragile as his touch and just as light.

"I don't see any whip." he flashed her a wider grin, this one baring white and squarish teeth. "So how did it go, mylovely lady?"

Recognizing the swift change of topic, Nathurra waved her free hand vaguely at the dark and damp air, keeping her cool. "And why should I tell you?"

"Because you love me?" he joked, and they both were smiling now, the toothy grins that cage in laughter; it was a long-standing inside jest between the two, began when Lesven came across the term during his research for some odd fancy or other that was always striking the flighty male. It was ridiculous, anyway; they did not love each other. Love was a weak emotion, and it had no part in the strong hearts of drow elves. They had stuck together for over a century merely because they fought well together and could stand each other well enough to prevent bloodshed, had seen two children enter the uncaring and cold world of theirs because of that endurance, and now were here -- one sitting, one half-sitting -- because of the mutual bond of profit. She was a wizard in need of a tanking force; he was a warrior and a rogue in need of an arcanistto aid him in his pursuits. They were two pieces of a puzzle, snapping easily together; their legacy, two aspiring wizards (if one was only a male) were intelligent and beautiful and upheld the pride of their City with ease and without fail, their acomplishments a testimony to the input of both father and mother. Lesven had served her well, and she had been a valued asset to the scheming male; together they had pulled off more than a dozen plots that had assisted House Despate -- and, of course,themselves --in its and their rise to glory. Why stop now?

"How soon?"

Nathurra turned back once more to glance at her mate, who was regarding her through cool eyes. "I asked," he repeated simply, "how soon?"

"One hour." Nathurra shrugged, a small rise and fall of slender shoulders. "Maybe four."

Lesven arched an eyebrow at her. His other hand slid across her shoulders and moved down, touching her waist. "We have time."

Time, Nathurra thought distantly as Lesven began to kiss her. Yes, we have time. In these endless halls of emptiness, all we have is time. And why not? We're going home, after all -- we have time. She kissed back, firmly sucking and pressing on his lips, and heard the word _time_ echo in her head. Over and over again -- _time . . . time . . . time . . . _

They broke apart slowly, gently, and sat waiting for Felyne and Killyl's groups to join there own so that they all could get on with the business of going home.

* * *

_I wish you all to know that this was written with the Player's Handbook balanced across my knees, so I hope I got the magical spells correct. The tentacled things are last-minute creations of my own mind; so are all the drow featured in this story. They have been brooding long into the night within the confines of my mind . . . I do hope that they've come forth in reasonable and properlymacabre style, as befitting their proud and dark natures. The names have all been generated on the Drow Name Generator, found on the Internet, and I'd like to thank the wonderful people who created it, because it helped me add the critical factor of a proper name to my characters. And I'd also like to thank R.A. Salvatore for his wickedly awesome novel, _Homeland _-- without it this story would havenever been created.This is Raablyn, and I want to thank you all for reading this, and I do hope you enjoyed it. If you didn't, well, thank you for trying it out anyway. Might I say this -- I hope this story made you think. You may leave reviews, nice, nasty, (I prefer the former, myself) and otherwise if you so wish; and then ditch the good and have a great day instead. This is Raab, signing off with fond wishes for all of your health. . . but hoping a few of you will remain stuck to my web. _

_Melodramatic, no?_

_Haha. _


	2. En Route To the Matron's Outpost

_With a gush of reddish smoke, the whispers cease. The air hangs hot, and lightly scented on the tongue; incense tickles the nose, and the eyes squint to peer through the crimson haze. With a single word, tense muscles relax and upright bodies sink back onto the hard stone seats, the hands grasping hilts hesitate and fall back into armored laps. They wait, and then raise their voices once again, lilting notes proclaiming the glory of the Queen of Spiders . . . _

* * *

The Matron's Outpost

250 Years Ago.

. . . _and she was sinking, sinking back into the stone, and her eyes wouldn't close; they saw the approaching figure, a blurry memory of yellow and grey heat, loom up before her, thing -- hammer? mace? -- in hand._

_"Make normal noises." the figure said, simply, coolly, and then SWUNG and it was black, black, black and. . . _

. . . someone was shaking her.

"Etheyl!"

The young female came out of the darkness of her oblivious Reverie in slow, creeping stages that seemed to slide from one to the other, gently bringing her mind into a soupy stage of semi-consciousness. The shaking hands helped: whoever it was, they had a nice, firm hold that was making her teeth ache as they clicked together. Still, her sleeping mind refused to arouse itself fully; it demanded that her eyes remained close, and Etheyl's eyes were prompt in heeding her mind's commands.

The hands, however, apparently did not aspire to gain the good will of her mind: they ceased their shaking and in the stead of jolting motion they opted for several quick, sharp slaps across the face in rapid succession. Etheyl flared back into awareness, her scarlet eyes popping open.

"Gu'e!" her mouth had copied her eyes, and when it popped open that sentiment burst out. Etheyl lifted her head and got a good view of the landscape of a fellow black-skinned face. The two were barely inches apart, and, now that Etheyl had raised her head, the tips of their pointy noses were brushing.

"Good." Sinda of House Myneld, Etheyl's fellow commander and elder cousin, retracted her visage back several inches as she shifted back into a graceful crouch -- the better, Etheyl knew, to gaze down her long nose at the younger drow. The thought crossed her mind swiftly, trailing a bit of old bitterness in its wake, and Etheyl supposed that some of it may have shown on her face, for Sinda's own countenance seemed to thin with contempt.

"Wake up, child." she snapped at her fellow, rising up to her full five-foot-six height, her long hair ghosting up her back as she did so and gleaming in the weak blue light of the Light Globe in the corner. Looking down at the prone Etheyl, Sinda added, in scolding tones, "And wipe that pout off of your lips -- it does not befit a self-respecting female of your station."

Etheyl felt hot, sick anger dig a new spike into her belly as she watched the pompous warrior, her insult delivered -- for the implication of her statement was that Etheyl was not a self-respecting female worthy of her station -- stride away on slender legs. Sinda was a full ten inches taller than Etheyl's four feet and eight inches, and, although she was but twenty-three years older, she retained the station of the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter of her grandmother's clan. Etheyl hated Sinda with a low, seething dislike, and the feeling was mutual.

The female warrior felt blood rise to her cheeks as she considered the situation -- she had had to be slapped awake like some mindless orc! -- and cast the thin cover of her bedroll from her body, glancing about to see if anyone had seen the shameful conversation with her cousin. Some of the drow curled up on their bedrolls may have, but Etheyl doubted that they realized the situation -- she was the only one in the cavern that was fully awake. As one of the co-sub-leaders of the new influx of warriors to the outpost, she had been awarded a small alcove off the main cavern, and could clearly see her lessers, their minds still blissfully seeped in the calm that was the Reverie, lying still and breathing deeply. She smirked a trifle disdainfully when her heat-seeing eyes found an extra visitor in a single bedroll, noted who was who, and chalked it up in her mental stores of information: it may come, she thought, in handy some day.

Assured that most of them were comfortably resting as well as they could while nestled on the cold stone floor, and, more importantly, not paying any heed to her, Etheyl began to dress, tugging on her black, high-collared blouse and the suit of shining chain mail. Her mind flicked back to the dream she had been experiencing -- it had been very vivid -- but she shook it off as the product of an overworked mind and thought no more of it. Today they would be arriving at the Outpost of House Myneld, and what a glory that was. For sheltered Etheyl, who had spent her entire life in the City of Emerald Waters, traveling through unknown and rough stone tunnels had not been a joy.

She strapped on her two swords, their blades fairly brimming with the powerful and wicked auras of the clerical spells they had been imbued with; with the blessing of Lolth and a magically sharp, serrated edge, they were weapons that she had earned with sweat and blood, some of it her own, most of it not. Following that action, she slipped three rings, two of them smoky black crystal and the third a rare gold boasting a small ruby, onto the first three fingers of her left hand; the right was bare except for the slender silver bracelet about her wrist. The nails of her slim hands were clean and even, neither too long nor too short, and shone when the Light Globe caught them.

Why, Etheyl suddenly wondered, did they need a Light Globe? She added that inquiry to the list of questions she planned to ask Xullavin Myneld when they dumped themselves, preferably with a reasonable amount of dignity (though, knowing Xullavin, there wasn't much chance of that) at the High Priestess's feet later that day, and then let it float free of her mental grasp. Lolth knew all that she had to do today; worries about such an insignificant globe of glass were not conductive to a quick and ready mind.

She did notice a small, green glow, but passed if off as a further figment of her imagination and pulled her boots on.

* * *

"Ilmna'ryne." 

The call was not particularly insistent or loud; rather than piercing the fog hugging her mind, it merely slipped about it. She dignified it with the intelligent retort of "Mmm?"

Nudge, nudge; fingers poking through her shirt. The voice in her ear, sweet and dramatic and whispery-soft: "Arise, fair Ilmna'ryne! The world lays at your delicate feet, having rolled to a screeching stop when some almighty god or other accidentally used it for an immortal game of _gache_. . .

"Nilor?" she asked, rolling away from the voice (and stealing most of the blanket, although she wasn't aware of this at the time.) as she did so.

"_Siyo_?" he replied, one of the drow words for 'yes.' Intelligent, fool, she thought, as she snickered a little at the image of a god playing a drinking game.

"Shut up."

"Oh, that's polite." she felt his fingers tighten on her arm, although his voice remained cool. Ilmna'ryne's eyes opened, their green irises dark in the bluish light and icy with budding anger.

"I mean it, male." she hissed, and Nilor, who had been watching her from his own bedroll, drew back sharply at the sharpness of her tone. His shirt rustled as he did so; apart from that, the movement made no sound.

"All right, then."

Ilmna'ryne did not answer the impertinent reply: she merely rolled over onto her belly and fixed the male with a deadly glare that promised a slow and painful death. Nilor shrugged, rolled over on his bedroll, and decided that the humorless female wasn't worth it so soon in the day.

They, along with twenty or so other drow, were making do with the uncomfortable cave floor: Ilmna'ryne had gotten a full four hours of rest, an accomplishment that she hadn't managed any of the previous nights of the two tendays the company had been marching for the Myneld Outpost. Others were stirring about them, moaning slightly or curling beneath their coverings, and, across the cave, Ilmna'ryne could see that imperious witch, Etheyl, brushing her long hair. Ilmna'ryne's own hair, its silky strands white-blond instead of the stark paleness of her fellows, sprawled about her pillow; she absently sat up and reached for her pack, intending to dig out her brush from wherever it had been hiding and tame her wild froth of waves.

As she bent over to peer into the backpack, her stiff back began to complain about the housing conditions; she ignored the uncomfortable feeling, reminding herself of worse pains. When at last the brush made itself known, the drow licked her lips and assumed a calm, relaxed position, cross-legged on the floor, even though her eyes scanned the room. No one was looking; if they were, the angle would be wrong. She steadied her eager hand, reached into the pack, and gently moved the arms of a bundled shirt aside.

* * *

Nulleari was intrigued. 

It wasn't often that the plain, small female found the life about her particularly interesting: Nulleari personally viewed the world as a boring, stupid place full of boring, stupid people, even those precious few that were reasonably smart but still horribly tedious and made the most imbecilic of decisions. The silver-haired female did not get along very well with others, and others found it considerably hard to get along with the cold, soft-spoken girl. Nulleari moved through the motions of her days with a certain detachment, as if nothing could touch her and as if she had no wish to touch anything.

She wasn't very ugly, nor very beautiful: her best physical feature, most decided, was her shock of silvery-white hair, which the cool female usually kept in a severe, painfully tight braid down her back that came level with her wrists. Her body was thin and small, only a few inches above 4'6, and she wore austere and unadorned clothing, favoring the practical over the pretty. With her small, sharp features, intense eyes, and spookily silent manner, Nulleari found that she made others uncomfortable; her lips were especially good at this job, as they were thin yet naturally upturned, so that it seemed that the cold-eyed female was always smiling slightly, a thing that most others found disturbing indeed.

Nulleari found the unease that followed her wake amusing, and she was quick to use it to her advantage. A child of the commoners of a small, merchant house, she had found herself a new addition to House Myneld when they came to conquer; with her mother's latest consort and one of her idiotic brothers dead in that assault, Nulleari had considered the attack a good thing, and had even looted the consort's body; her mother knew nothing of this, and Nulleari happily kept the spoils that would have been her mother's right.

She was a quick sleeper, a light sleeper, and slept easily; worries and ambitions held little place in her life, and she boxed them up safely when she took Reverie. She was also usually awake before others, and was in fact the first drow awake in the large cave.

She had indeed witnessed the scolding one of the commanders had given another one, had listened to the whispered conversation of Ilmna'ryne and her latest consort, had been privy to a dozens of sounds that no dwarf or human would have detected. The crafty female had also been watching when Ilmna'ryne pulled her pack close to her in the careful manner of a merchant pulling an energetic baby lizard to herself, and was now greatly interested in the soft, green light that flooded the top of the pack and part of Ilmna'ryne's face.

Nulleari sensed opportunity.

She rose with the grace and silence granted to her by the blessing of her race; a small, dark shadow, she slowly danced her way through the chaotic mess of bedrolls and sleeping drow elves, taking great care not to step on anyone's hair, and snuck up behind Ilmna'ryne.

To the other drow's credit, she did notice the approaching female, had even begun to turn about when Nulleari closed the distance between the two, and had one hand snaking out to grasp the hilt of her sword when Nulleari's hands came down hard upon her shoulders, right next to her neck. Nulleari could see the anger and shame upon Ilmna'ryne's face, could see the predictable calculation ticking away in her green eyes(_what is this going to cost me? how can I get out of this? what would that cost me? what would that gain me?) _as her lips moved in spasms of silent curses.

"Good morning, soldier." Nulleari whispered discreetly in Ilmna'ryne's left ear, moving her face up next to the trapped female's and pressing her cheek to Ilmna'ryne cheek as she braced the other drow against her knee. "What is this interesting green glow, I wonder?"

Ilmna'ryne gritted her teeth; Nulleari bit back a wolfish smile. She could understand the emotions of Ilmna'ryne at the moment, even if she did not sympathize -- the female had, after all, allowed the situation to happen by not being alert enough, and, in the rules of the drow world, she deserved the situation she did not avoid.

"You wouldn't mind if I had a look?"

Ilmna'ryne, understanding that she had been caught, scowled deeply. "Be my guest."

Nulleari nodded, smiled, and peeked into the sack. What she saw nearly took her breath away; aware of her distraction, she tightened her grip on Ilmna'ryne. Her smile bloomed cold and victorious.

"What," she whispered against the warmth of Ilmna'ryne flesh, "would you give to me to insure my quiet?"

Her meaning was not lost on the female. Ilmna'ryne's lips went tight, and her skin flushed, something that would have been obvious had Nulleari been looking out in the heat-seeing spectrum. The female seemed as if she would just explode, would destroy the wretched drow peeking into her treasures. Nulleari could see the image of herself dying horribly reflected in Ilmna'ryne's eyes; she did not bother to stifle her yawn.

"Fifty gold." Ilmna'ryne hissed.

"Not enough." Nulleari whispered, pressing the tips of her nails to the cloth of Ilmna'ryne shirt and exerting pressure.

"Sixty." the hiss had become a growl, and Nulleari uttered a short breath of answer out in reply:

"Ha."

"Seventy."

"You try my patience." Nulleari let go of one shoulder, flicked her wrist in the same fluid motion, dropped a dagger into her palm and slit said dagger down Ilmna'ryne collar. It slipped down her back and nicked her spine.

"What, then?" Ilmna'ryne snarled, more in anger than in fear; Nulleari suspected that she was cursing herself thoroughly for allowing Nulleari to sneak up upon her.

"A hundred. For a starting fee." Nulleari cut of a protesting noise with a flick of the dagger, and Ilmna'ryne ground her pristine teeth. "And one of those."

Now Ilmna'ryne made a small choking sound, but Nulleari laughed quietly in her ear. "What are you opposed to?" she hissed, her breath hot in Ilmna'ryne's perfect ear. "If I have one, then I must keep the secret, too." When Ilmna'ryne opened her mouth to speak, Nulleari shushed her gently, and shook her just a little. "Of course, I could hide mine, I suppose, and expose you: but then you could, of course, expose me, and then, assuming that your friends could find my little hiding space, where would I be?"

Ilmna'ryne considered silently, and then gave a curt nod. What choice did she have?

Nulleari was grinning as she reached into the sack and helped herself to one of the little beauties inside.

* * *

_For those who wish to know, the drow name generator I used, see my profile. Otherwise, I hoped you enjoyed this quick chapter (only 6 pages long): and, to those who were wondering, I actually did generate the name 'Adultree.' Thank you for reading, if you review thank you for doing so, and have a good day. _


	3. II

_Welcome back. _

_

* * *

_

250 Years Ago.

The Matron's Outpost II

They made great time over the course of the day. The drow in charge of the reinforcements were pleased at how well the march was going: no 'accidents' had depleted the ranks, no monsters had decided that _filet drow _was on the menu, no major obstructions had blocked their way. The tunnels were smooth, calm, and empty.

Two hours later, the flowing rock about them gave way to a thick blanket of moss that clung to the floors, ceilings, and walls, dripping salty water down upon drow heads every two minutes or so. The air became heavy and damp; no wind stirred it, and the marching dark elves soon noticed that the air grew stagnant and hot in their mouths. Their own sweat beaded on their brows and mixed with the damp that stuck clothing to dark skin and caused armor to gleam wetly in the greenish glow of the moss; tempers rose with the heat, making themselves known in the edge of the whispers in the tunnels.

The moss only grew thicker as they moved deeper towards the east, but that, as the scouts confirmed, was to be expected; eventually it would thin and disappear, leaving the stone clear and dry. When, an hour later, the moss showed no signs of surrender, Etheyl proposed a halt.

Sinda, predictably, opposed her request.

"We are making record time!" the drow argued, her back to the matted wall and her arms folded over her chest. "Why stop now? Are we to be deterred by a little moss, like cowardly goblins?"

Etheyl blew a lock of hair from her mouth and squarely faced her cousin, her own hands resting firmly upon her slender hips. She ignored the onlooking drow, although she felt a twinge of annoyance when Sinda shot the 'cowardly goblins' part at her, and noted the twitch of Dillara's full lips at those words. Proud Dillara, who wore the horrible scar upon her right hand as a battle trophy, was well-known for her hatred of goblins and her bravery (some would call it recklessness) in battle; she was also known for the strong sadistic streak she often displayed alongside her courage, and known in particular for her methods of dealing lingering and crippling pain to those she battled with. Etheyl's gaze unconsciously slipped to the wickedly serrated edges of the assassin's short swords, and Dillara must have noticed the movement, for she rested both her slim palms upon the hilts of her weapons and leveled a dangerously pleasant smile Etheyl's way.

"The soldiers are tired." Etheyl spoke, returning Dillara's gaze with a cold grin of her own, and projecting her words to the public in general in defiance of Sinda's secretive tones.

"You are tired." Quaridil, the red-and-purple designs upon her clerical robes glimmering strangely beneath the emerald glow of the moss, cut in smoothly. "We all are . . . aren't we? Is that not what you imply?"

"I for one can march five hours without whining about it." Dillara half-whispered, her low voice strong, prideful and aimed at Etheyl, who narrowed her eyes at the warrior. "It is not so hard."

"That is not what I am saying." Etheyl growled at Dillara, her eyes going to Quaridil's disdainful visage and her hands going from her hips to her hilts. She calmed her voice and continued in a more civilized tone. "I am saying that we should take time to rest and consider our course, maybe even send out a scout or two to locate the outpost and inform them of our impending arrival."

"A good idea." Amalasryn, the only male leader of the reinforcements, spoke up, and received the reprimanding glares of Etheyl, Sinda, and Dillara. Quaridil sighed softly, as a mother might sigh when a very young child repeatedly does something because she does not know better.

"Who gave you permission to speak?" Sinda snarled at the warrior.

"Keep quiet." Dillara agreed sternly.

"Do I not get a say in this decision?" Amalasryn appealed to Quaridil, his face flushing to the heat-seeing eyes of his comrades. The other three females scowled at the male's back, and Etheyl had a passing fantasy of sticking her sword right through his spine. From the dreamy expression on Dillara's and Sinda's faces, they were thinking much the same.

"What decision?" Etheyl feigned lightness and scowled at the four drow, the hard set of her delicate features reflecting her unhappy mood. "You mean that these fools suddenly see sense?"

It was a slip of the tongue, caused by frustration, and Etheyl had a second to wonder at the consequences of the insult before Dillara, her eyes narrowing dangerously, pounced back. "It takes one to know one."

"Cease this!" Sinda made a cutting motion of her hand, thus interrupting the conversation and apparently earning the cold glower that Dillara placed over her." What will it get done?"

"It could thin the ranks." Quaridil muttered, turning a sly glance to Dillara and Etheyl. "Considerably."

Both females hushed at that, and, although Dillara's fingers remained wrapped about the hilts of her weapons, Etheyl released hers.

"We will rest." Quaridil continued, and Sinda bit her tongue in anger. "And we will send scouts out. But we will not stay long, my dears," she shot a stern glare at Dillara and Etheyl as she hissed the endearment, and both flushed, "so do not get too comfortable."

With that, the cleric strode away, absently brushing past the hanging moss and stepping lightly upon the springy ground. Amalasryn, his face cold and set, walked off too, head held high and hands clasped behind him. Sinda made a noise of disgust and leaned against the tunnel way, her lips puckered as if she had just taken a deep drink of sour algae wine. Etheyl, too, turned to go, and had not taken her second step in that direction when she felt sharp movement behind her. She spun back, caught a glimpse of a descending blade.

To her credit, she managed to duck and moved her head to the right at such short notice; the dagger, its blade dull and heatless, gashed the side of her forehead, sliding along the bone and tearing skin. Had she not acted, Etheyl realized with a cold feeling in her stomach, the steel would be cutting the back of her throat at that moment.

Dillara calmly drew the weapon back and pointedly flicked it over her fingers, catching it easily and sending a small spray of blood through the air. "I am no coward." she replied in answer to Etheyl's furious, surprised stare. "Nor fool."

Etheyl raised one hand as the words left Dillara's mouth, arching it as if to touch the wound below her hairline; instead, she froze it halfway there, gestured strongly, and spoke a word aloud. Dillara's quick reflexes propelled her up in the air as she recognized the spell, her feet tucking beneath her . . . almost in time. The flames that gushed out from Etheyl's fingertips seared into the drow's lower belly and legs, and Etheyl grinned in satisfaction as clothing caught flame.

Dillara twisted in midair, landing hard upon her burned legs and letting a small gasp of pain burst from her mouth. She had one hand to her sister dagger and the first weapon aimed to strike when both drow froze, Dillara still in a half-stagger.

Quaridil calmly walked in between the two, easily brushing away the dagger and gazing with amusement upon Etheyl's wounds and Dillara's burns. She stopped, slowly turned to alternately look both in the eye, and then snapped her whip. The snakes attached to the slender hilt, the signature weapon of a Lolthite cleric, hissed and whacked hard against Etheyl's chest; a second snap sent them slamming against Dillara's stomach. No fangs dug past steel armor into drow skin, but Etheyl, blood rolling down her face in gleaming pearls of red, could feel the bruises the whip had inflicted swelling beneath her clothing.

Quaridil smiled slightly, and Sinda, who had come up behind her, started slightly at the sight of blood and began to smile: it made her face look almost angelic and warmly beautiful. The cleric stopped her with a cold glare, however, and Sinda, the smile faltering somewhat, retreated to a safer distance well out of the snake whip's range; Etheyl felt a hot rush of humiliation at the sight of her cousin. Her body stood frozen, quivering with the nerves that Dillara's attack had disturbed, and the heat upon her face was at once repulsive and comforting.

"I said," Quaridil was saying, and Etheyl focused her attention upon the cleric as much as her unmoving eyes would allow, "that we will rest_. Rest_." She turned back to Dillara, raised one slim hand, and cupped the assassin's chin in her smooth palm. "What is the definition of rest, my dear, sweet Dillara? Is it 'fight stupidly over petty insults'?"

Dillara, of course, could not answer, although heat bloomed within her cheeks, and Quaridil released her and turned her dangerous gaze expectantly to Etheyl. "Well?"

When neither drow answered her, their tongues held still inside their mouths with the effects of the spell, Quaridil turned suddenly to Sinda, her robes swishing about her legs. "Well, warrior of House Myneld? Is it that?"

"No, mistress." Sinda dutifully replied, lowering her eyes from Quaridil's red gleam.

"No!" Quaridil echoed the warrior, swinging back to face Dillara and Etheyl. "It is not!"

Her voice rang in the silence, and the voices of the soldiers, milling about farther back in the tunnels, hushed in anticipation, although none could actually see the encounter: the commanders had traveled a bit up the corridor to hold their debate.

"Such actions bring the favor of Lolth," the cleric continued angrily, "_when they do not affect her schemes_. What would such a fight do in this situation? Wound two of the commanders for the reinforcements of this outpost? Kill one? Kill both? And how might that be conductive to House Myneld's ambitions?"

Sinda licked her lips, and flashed Etheyl a smirk behind Quaridil's back. Etheyl would have dearly loved to slit her throat at that moment; Quaridil, unaware of the warrior's murderous thoughts, continued her scolding, her voice rising steadily. The snake whip stirred in her hand, obviously agitated. "Without this outpost, House Myneld lacks a strong outside reserve; without this outpost, the City lacks a further fort of scouts and spies. The outpost is a coming-and-going for the appointed infiltrators for that filthy duergar city: what then, if it is lost?" Quaridil turned her scowl over Dillara, who did her best to look properly meek while being unable to move her features. "House Det'tar cannot hold the outpost by itself; House Myneld's support is vital. Vital! If you sever the flow of blood to your hand, your hand will die! And so it is here!"

Etheyl, anger swelling in her throat, realized that Quaridil was enjoying herself.

"And you would stand to disrupt the possible victory of the Spider Queen's chosen people over a group of grunting idiots?" the cleric finished coldly, clenching her fist. A snake rose before Dillara's beautiful face and hissed at her cheek, rubbing its body along her full lips as it did so; Sinda watched with a kind of cold, bright-eyed interest. "Mother of Lusts, I should strip the skin from your limbs, slice them off one hair width at a time, and then regrow them -- again and again -- to offer the Spider Queen further pleasure for this!"

I bet you'd enjoy that, you hag, Etheyl thought with an almost jealous anger. She knew that, were she in Quaridil's place, she certainly would.

Quaridil dismissed the spell that held the two females then, and Dillara slumped heavily to the ground. Etheyl pressed her raised hand to her forehead, and felt the blood there nestle itself into the creases of her palm. Both drow gazed mutely at the cleric, who snorted, turned, and walked away. Apparently, the scolding was over, and there was no healing to be had.

Sinda strode after Quaridil, and Etheyl, knowing that acknowledging Dillara's pain at the moment would wound the prideful drow and possibly provoke another attack in the future, shakily followed her cousin. She did not look back, and Dillara, pulling a healing potion from her pocket, did not look up. She had closed her eyes, and now opened them warily, as if expecting -- or hoping -- to have imagined it all.

No such luck. Etheyl's footsteps, barely a swish against the stone, rang out as hard blows that pounded in Dillara's head. Mockingly -- _smugly. _

"You dirty witch." she hissed, the sting of her humiliation digging sharply in her head. "You dirty _vithin _witch!" Her hair hung about her face as she swallowed the liquid in a single gulp, grimaced at the pain in her legs, and slowly pushed herself up from the floor. I shall, she promised herself, teach that fool her place.

"Yes." she said aloud, softly, glancing back up the tunnel where Etheyl had disappeared. I think I shall.

She was smiling a bitter, eager smile.

* * *

Nulleari had kept her customary low profile all day, not talking much, keeping a wary eye on her possessions, and making sure that Ilmna'ryne was in sight at all times. The drow female doubted that Ilmna'ryne would attack her now, with so many witnesses looking on, but the lure of the thing resting in her hidden pocket, next to her leg, might be too tempting for the female. That thought, and the gentle, heavy sway of the thing tucked inside her clothing, sent a pleasant thrill tingling up her spine, and also dried her mouth with the nervous taste of low-grade terror. 

The rest did not come as welcome to Nulleari, but neither did it come with regret. The warrior did not care much for the springy, soft foliage that annoyingly draped itself into her face and sunk slightly wherever her foot stepped; she cared less for the heat of the air. However, conditions were what they were; if you could not change it, go with it.

She slipped a water skein from her pouch, keeping her hand close to her sword as she did so, lifted the skein to her lips, and took a deeper swallow than she had meant to. The water rolled through her mouth and down her throat, temporarily soothing the dryness therein, and Nulleari silently berated herself for allowing her anxiety to creep into her movements. She wanted a second swallow, but the water skein was almost half-empty, and it never hurt to be conservative. She tucked it away without further debate, mentally told her throat to deal with it, and glanced about without much interest. The commanders were back, and apparently this was rest time.

"Just like unweaned children." a male -- Nilor, by the dramatic way the cloak was tossed over his boney shoulders -- near Ilmna'ryne grumbled in his melodic, low voice. "I suppose we should start cleaning, too."

"Tch." Kelrysn of House Myneld said, brushing away a hanging strip of moss. With his hair tied back from his face, and his particularly large eyes, he looked younger than he was; Nulleari supposed he must have been teased about that. Not that anyone would do so now: Kelrysn had built up a fine reputation as a brilliant fighter, and, Nulleari knew, as a very skilled companion for Matron Haelriia -- a _very_ skilled companion. The odds were good in Kelrysn's favor; if he played his cards right, everybody knew (and loathed him for), he could very well become the next Matron's next patron. Lolth knew that Haelriia was bored with the old one.

Nulleari sighed with the uselessness of it all, for Kelrysn would rise and fall as easily as the last patron had, and drew a dagger. She absently flipped it about her fingers, tossed it in the air, caught it easily in her dark hand, and fantasized about all the wonderful things she and Master Dagger could accomplish. Particularly if they had a human -- a nice, hale human. Not a goblin, goblins whined and any child could do a goblin -- and not a duergar, they smelled awful. She supposed they took bathes, but the smell must be inherent, for it clung to the ugly grey skin of the deep dwarves. A nice, strong human; orcs were not up to the level of a human, orcs brayed and snuffled and begged in their horse, unlovely tongue, but a good human, chained up to a wall . . . humans, as every lucky drow knew, could produce satisfyingly shrill screams that went on and on and on. Nulleari had had a human -- once -- and, oh, was that fun. Was that _fun_. Goblins and orcs just weren't up to the level of a human, oh, no . . . oh, no. She chuckled to herself, softly and beneath her breath.

She glanced down, then, and notice the small greenish glow slowly creeping up within the cloth. Nulleari did not place a hand to her pocket -- that would have looked suspicious, and would have prompted unwelcome interest -- but she shifted her leg a little, feeling the weight of the object in its pouch, and nodded to herself as the cloth of her shirt slid nicely over her trousers, hiding the light.

Now, all she needed was . . .

Nulleari flipped the dagger once more in the air, caught it, and smiled to herself. The smile was predatory and malicious -- and, at the same time, it also made her face look stunningly beautiful.

* * *

The room was black, crafted from obsidian and magic, and octagonal in shape. The walls were polished to a high shine -- by the tiny hands of drow children, for lesser, cruder creatures such as goblins and other slaves were not allowed in the sanctity of this room. When one gazed at the flat, dark surface, one gazed at one's own face, reflected back as perfectly as any mirror. 

At the moment, the walls reflected the red, garish glow of flames, dancing wildly up and down from the eight braziers that ringed the spider-altar, which was set directly in the middle of the large room. A bowl of shining, dark liquid was set before the altar; directly in front of that was a low, stone table. Shackled to the stone table, lying upon its broad back, was a muscular, naked ogre male, its muscles bulging against the unyielding steel chains.

Knives tapped out a rhythm on the stone; drow voices rose in prayer, dipped suddenly low, and came up high once more. The owners of the voices stood about the sacrificial table: eight female drow, every one of them dressed in her clerical robes and not much else, their jewelry vanished and their hair falling, loose and unbound, about their slender shoulders in waterfalls of white. Smooth black ankles arched up from slender, bare feet; beads of sweat stood out on every face.

"Ma sha, nat yil namurr." they crooned sweetly, swaying to the tune of each other's voices; high, low, in-between, going low but stopping and going high again. "Ma sha, jurj lusshaa-na, _beru rulnu mak sa feri_." Voices jabbing to the ceiling, undercutting some voices and overlaying other voices, honey-sweet and clear and proud. Knives glittered in the firelight, turning over and over, tapping on the stone. "Ma sha, nat yil namurr."

The ogre looked decidedly uneasy. Rilymma, the youngest in attendance and the nearest to the ogre, offered him a warm, motherly smile, and the ogre began to tremble.

"Ma sha, jurj lusshaa-na, _beru rulnu mak sa feri._" Two of the eight females were chanting, their voices low and steady; the remaining six were singing, three high and three low, alternating every other verse or so. The effect, combined with the heat of the room and the gleam of the blades, was both dreamy and terrifying.

"Queen of Spiders . . ." one of the females, the eldest of the eight, began, and the ogre heard no more as the singing rose to a painfully high note; it nearly swooned, the heavily, almost sickeningly sweet sense of incense hovering in its nostrils. The colors blurred and merged as it began to whine, but the chanting continued, relentless. When it shrank against the stone, Rilymma could see the red indents the chains had left upon its skin.

The ogre howled as the knives descended, swooping suddenly low along with the voices, severing foot from leg and leg from abdomen; it screamed, the half-chant half-song pressing in on its ears, as the knives parted hand from arm and arm from torso. It fainted as knives slit its chest open, first unearthing and then digging its heart out the way gold may be mined from stone. It was dead when the knives separated its head from its shoulders, and by then it didn't matter.

Blood spilled everywhere, soaking the floor; there was a wet, dull thump as the ogre's heart, ragged and dripping, was dropped into the basin. The air, hot and coppery and sick-sweet, shuddered as the singing rose to a pitch. Delicate hands lifted the mutilated corpse, and delicate feet left bloody footprints on the shiny floor as each piece was, one by one, dropped onto a separate brazier. The flames soared high, and burning flesh joined the aromas of the room, a perfume that all eight high priestesses would be wearing for weeks to follow.

A new knife was passed about, its blade black and thin and cruel; drow skin was cut open, and elven blood joined the heart and unholy water within the basin. Drow fingers rubbed blood upon full drow lips, and dripping drow lips were pressed reverently to the foot of the altar; the prostrate bodies shimmered in the mirror-like walls as they performed the dance, rising, falling, twirling about the altar, falling and rising and twirling again. Drow fingers rubbed the cuts, and then pressed their wet tips to the lips of the statue upon the altar; voices raised. Someone screamed. The rest sang on. The bones were showing through the ogre's blackened flesh now; the flames climbed still higher. Sweat rolled down the bridges of angular noses, and moans filled the air as forms twisted by the firelight. Cries rang out; Rilymma stepped before the altar, and threw back her head.

"Ash-rakk!" she called out, her voice shrill with passion. "Asimiti cor her'u _mak sa morn e'lyen sga'keesz_!"

The call hit the walls and bounced back, the whine-hiss-sharp notes of her voice spinning eerily about the room: _Keesz_!_ Eesz_! _Eesz_!

A tall, hulking figure arose from the flames, black as the dark from which the world was borne, its shape shifting and merging dizzily. Rilymma invoked the final syllable, lifted her arms, and felt her self flee her body as the darkness hovered above the flames, horrible and unearthly, and then fell on her. _In_ her.

The sensations that followed were basic and surreal; the heat of the room, the scent of incense in her mouth, and the pressure from within, the nameless pressure that was at once so light but so demanding, the pressure of a shadow attempting to break free of a body. She closed her eyes and descended into reddish darkness, and then screamed as a coldness, full and thick and sharp, cut her inside. The shadow pulsed within her, withdrawing from her arms and legs and snuggling into her lower belly.

Voices rose; feet dragged upon the floor, chains were unlocked. A slender form, dark as was her own, embraced her; lips pressed savagely against her cheek. The dark inside her shuddered, and then shrank as sensation hit her mind; it fixed itself inside her, holding on and refusing to leave. Voices fell and rose again.

When it was over, she lay still for a long, long while, panting against the floor.

* * *

_Please review, & thank you for reading._


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